


Sunlight Breezes At The End of All Things (Or the Beginning)

by ALC_Punk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Headcanon, Multi, Sherloliarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 04:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18242024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALC_Punk/pseuds/ALC_Punk
Summary: Molly Hooper is aware that things are ending. She's content with that, after all, it will reunite her with the people she loves.





	Sunlight Breezes At The End of All Things (Or the Beginning)

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a. fluffier, and b. nowhere near as funny as the headcanon I grabbed suggests. But its inspired by this recent headcanon post from sherlockrarepairs on tumblr _Who would haunt the other after death and chase away other suitors? - Really, it isn’t one of them. Sherlock and Jim are both… territorial over their pathologist. And they both died around the same time, so it was kind of a shock for them both to see each other once they passed the veil. They snark at each other until Molly joins them, who hugs them, and then chastises them for their possessiveness. (Many a suitor were scared off by their shared passion for Molly.)_

At ninety-five, Molly Hooper was content with the life she'd led. Sitting in the sunlight, staring across the sloping lawns of the hospital she'd been remanded to when she'd had a fall which left her disorientated and uncertain of whom she actually was, she considered all that had come before.

Good times, bad times, blissful and occasionally crazy time. Some terribly mediocre, but she'd still managed. The good memories certainly out-weighted the others, and she huffed out a breath in remembrance. 

Spreading her hands in the sunlight, she studied her nails. Done in a brilliant turqoise, the color was incongruous with the dappled shades of her wrinkled skin. One of the nurses had given her a manicure the other day at her request. They liked doing little things like that for her. She was so polite, they said.

_Going to flirt with that Mr. Jenkins?_ Carly had teased as she shaped the tips of Molly's nails.

No. No, she wasn't.

Jenkins was probably an all right sort of bloke, but Molly wasn't really interested in letting him be frightened to death. At his age, that would be the result if she'd even attempted to flirt with him.

Her own resident specters at the feast would see to that.

Jealous little boys that they were.

She shifted a little in the chair, feeling the elastic of the bra she'd insisted upon that morning. Matching bra and knickers had produced more teasing, but she'd enjoyed the pleasure of it. There was a time when they'd been miss-matched, and her clothing was even worse.

More than one person had despaired at her lack of color-matching, but Molly had done it on purpose.

It was hilarious to watch people try to be polite about her clothing.

What she wore, after all, hadn't had a thing to do with her job. She was of the opinion that they should have focused on that, rather than her professional attire (she'd had a suit for court, of course. There was a difference between twitting her colleagues and making certain she was taken seriously when it mattered).

Not to mention, it had driven both of them to distraction when she'd deliberately wear something that clashed with their preferred charcoals, blacks, grays and purples. 

The pale lilac shirt she wore matched the gray trackies on her bottom half. But the bright green and yellow-swirled under-things matched neither.

One side of her mouth ticked upwards as she leant back in her chair, content.

The sun felt rather warm and lovely, though she was sure to want shade soon. If she needed it.

Closing her eyes, she wondered which of them would find her first, or if she would become one of those bar statistics as care workers one-upped each other on causes of death and out of the way places they'd found their charges.

Not that she'd care.

She breathed out again and opened her eyes.

"Took you bloody long enough." Jim was already sulky, she could tell even before he was fully visible in front of her. The sunlight danced through him before the charcoal gray elegance of his Westwood suit turned into a solid and it was repelled.

A disdainful noise from his left made him glare at the person who'd made it; Sherlock smirked, one of his favorite dressing gowns on his shoulders and socks on his feet. The slacks were tailored and gray, and the shirt was purple and straining at the buttons as Molly knew he liked them. As did she (as did Jim, if he was drunk or high enough to go on and on about how he wanted to bite the buttons off). "She's always set her own time."

Molly snorted, then looked at them. "Well?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Deep subject, doll." Tilting his head, James Moriarty gave her a very thorough once-over. "You're looking good."

"Pathetic," muttered Sherlock. "Twenty years, and that's all you can come up with?"

"At least I managed to be complimentary. I'm sure you were about to observe something embarrassing about her weight, hair, and coloring."

"You never change, the both of you," Molly said, feeling nostalgic for the days when she'd chase them both round her flat with a spatula. There had been various reasons for it, of course. But spatulas were better than guns, which she'd banned after the one time she'd almost shot Jim with one.

Chemicals and experiments were still allowed, of course. Sherlock would pine too much, and unsurprisingly, the other two enjoyed them. Anything explosive had been Jim's partiality. Though deliberate explosions were also banned from the flt. 

"We are dead. Hard to change when you're dead."

She smiled at Jim, then settled for crossing her arms. "I'm not hugging first, you know."

"The need for human contact is specious," was Sherlock's comment, but he was moving and his arms wrapped around her a moment later. "We're dead, Molly."

"I know." She burrowed into him, closing her eyes and relishing the feel of his arms around her. A moment later, a second set of arms joined his. "I've missed you both. Twenty years was too long."

"We all went in our own time," murmured Jim. His lips brushed the side of her neck, and his body shivered with a movement that in anyone else would have been a half-sob. "He's so dull without you."

"As is he."

"I know you love each other. And me." Molly turned her head and kissed Jim's cheek. "But you're both in the dog house for not allowing anyone else to love me."

"They weren't good enough," Sherlock replied, his tone lofty.

"Couldn't keep up, and you know it."

"I was eighty-seven. It wasn't like I was scaling Everest, you twats." And she really had wanted at least one last fling before the old age truly caught up with her. Pity the man hadn't had the bottom or the spine for it, in the end. At least, Tom, long ago fling that he was, had had the balls to try to stay with her even after the insanity of Sherlock being alive had descended upon his life. 

"But if you had been..."

Molly huffed, but let it go for the moment. "So. Who shall we haunt first?"

"I was thinking Lestrade."

Whether they could haunt another ghost was probably beside the point. If Molly knew either of the men still pressed up against her, they had already discovered a way to manage it. Briefly, she wondered if Hell still had a leader or if Jim had led a rebellion there. If there was a hell, that was. 

Behind Molly, Jim shifted a bit, his fingers pulling at the elastic of her tracksuit bottoms. "I have a better question. Do these match?" It was obvious he'd discovered her knickers.

Unsurprising. He'd always been just slightly more interested in them than Sherlock. Not that he objected, once he got suckered into inspecting them. And nakedness. Sherlock enjoyed sex as much as the other two, it was just the trappings and clothing he'd not really cared about. Mostly.

He was, after all, a closet sensualist.

"Of course they do." Sherlock sounded rather confident as he fingered the collar of her shapeless blouse. "She knew, after all."

Pushing up on her toes, Molly kissed him. It was unhurried and gentle, the emotion in the simple movement catching at the back of her throat. She swallowed as she dropped back onto her heels and turned to kiss Jim.

They both tasted the salt of tears. Molly wasn't entirely sure they were all her own.

-f-

And then they had ghost sex somewhere and started scandalizing everyone except Mrs. H. because she's been there and done that. Mary is glad she no longer has to wrangle their crankiness, and John can finally retire. Again.


End file.
